Dancing Slowly in an Empty Room
by dudeurfugly
Summary: Inspired by the prompt "slow dance." A sort of companion piece to my previous one shot, 'Bittersweet Symphony.' Emma and Jefferson take their first steps toward something new and try moving on, at least for now, from the past. Jefferson/Emma.


**Disclaimer: I don't own anything, as always. Just having a bit of fun!**

**A/N: I guess this can be a sort of sequel to my other one shot, 'Bittersweet Symphony,' though I don't think you have to read that one to understand this. Inspired in part by the lyrics to Christina Perri's "The Lonely":**

**_Dancing slowly in an empty room_**

**_Can the lonely take the place of you? _**

**_I sing myself a quiet lullaby_**

**_Let you go and let the lonely in _**

**_To take my heart again_**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Emma considers herself in awe. Somewhere beneath that slightly—well, <em>more<em> than slightly, given the fact that his motives for getting what he wants are morally questionable—insane exterior lies a very sophisticated, intelligent man. First his skillful musicianship, and now his _taste_ in music, which is what Emma has been browsing through for the past fifteen minutes. She's upstairs in one of those rooms she never knew existed in the hotel-like mansion, a maze of hallways and doors with a surprise around every corner. It's like a funhouse, Emma muses, except maybe not always so much emphasis on fun. It's dark and a little off-kilter, with locked doors and bedrooms with nothing in them, some half-finished.

She's stumbled upon this one on her walk back from the bathroom and hopes that Jefferson won't mind her snooping around. The door had been ajar enough for the slivers of moonlight to peek through the sheer curtains and highlight the towers of shelving on the walls, reflecting off the polished cherry wood. At first glance, Emma had thought it to be a library, but once she poked her head in, she discovered the room was filled—floor to ceiling—with gorgeous hand-crafted shelves that housed more record sleeves than Emma could count. She'd flicked on the light and stepped in, intending to only take a few minutes, but one thing led to another and now she's hooked. It was funny how everything about Jefferson had the tendency to do that.

Her fingers run across the glossy sleeves, pulling out one here and there based upon the title or color alone. The scent of lemon wood polish assails Emma's senses and she breathes it in looking for the vintage odor of old records contained within their mostly pristine sleeves. Suddenly, she's seventeen all over again; afternoons spent in someone's house—certainly not hers, none of them ever did feel like home—letting the drumbeats and screeching guitar chords pound the rebellion out of her system. Emma smiles almost fondly. She cannot remember exactly the last time she'd had the opportunity to listen to a record. It's been years since she's been in a house with a good player.

Emma catches one by the window, set on top of an ornate table that has what she thinks is a marble surface. It looks brand new and vintage all at once, with cherry wood to match the shelving and a pattern carved at the corners like leaves. The top is propped open to reveal a record already lying inside; a classical piece Emma has never heard of. She can't pronounce the title but she thinks it's French.

"See anything you like?"

Jefferson's voice makes her jump, but she laughs it off.

"You have quite the collection," she says. "How many?"

Jefferson leans against the doorframe, one hand shoved in the pocket of his jeans. He thinks for a moment.

"Lost count awhile ago," he replies. "Last I checked, there's about twenty-five hundred."

Emma whistles. "Color me impressed."

Jefferson crosses the room to the record player and lifts the record out of it, slipping it into the sleeve. He walks over to Emma and slides it easily back onto the shelf, finding a small gap for it to fit into the puzzle. Emma stands with her hands on her hips, stiff and authoritative-like, brow creased in deliberation. There's so many shelves she doesn't know where to begin.

"Just between you and me," Jefferson says with amusement in his voice, "I haven't gotten around to listening to some of them. If I see something I like, I get it."

Now it's Emma's turn to look amused. Heat creeps into her cheeks. "Yes, you certainly do, I'll give you that."

Jefferson shrugs. "Don't flatter yourself, Emma, I was talking about the records," he answers, although they both know it's a lie. "Anyway, I see a record I might like, I buy it. Sometimes, it'll sit on the shelf for months before I get to know it better."

Emma tosses him another meaningful glance. "The _records_, huh?"

He shakes his head with a soft chuckle and moves to the opposite end of the room, where he reaches up on a top shelf, fingers tracing on their own accord. Jefferson tugs out a record and walks back to the player, placing it in. He pushes the sleeve under the table and hovers the needle over the record.

"Since you're so indecisive… You seemed to like classical the last time you were here."

"What you played was beautiful," Emma affirms.

Jefferson sets the needle on the record and a sudden crackle brings to life a chorus of violins in harmony with a sharp yet joyous sound. It's a soothing, somewhat slow melody, gorgeous in its peaceful tone. It reminds Emma of those romantic silent films, and she understands why he chose it. They listen to the gentle undulations of the violins, and Emma is struck by the feeling of pure beauty and that thing she cannot quite grasp—magic. She pictures a luxurious ballroom flecked with gold and marble, high ceilings painted with a pastel masterpiece, and gentlemen and ladies in their finest attire. Yes, she understands why Jefferson chooses the music he does, music that creates a fairytale.

Music that reminds him of what he believes is his real home.

Emma racks her brain for a moment, closing her eyes to let the sweet dance of notes float around her head.

"I can't place the composer," she admits. "I was never really an expert at that type of thing."

"Beethoven," Jefferson supplies without a second thought, "Violin Romance No. 2."

Emma raises an eyebrow. "…Romance?"

Jefferson appears sheepish. "It's a nice piece, Emma," he says. "I don't always have to have an ulterior motive, do I?"

"I don't know," Emma says slowly. "I haven't quite figured you out yet."

"Ah," Jefferson laughs. "I like an air of…_mystery_ around me. You can afford to turn off your bloodhound police skills for one night."

"All right," she sighs, peeling off her jacket. She tosses it in a heap by the table, leaving herself in a tank top and jeans. "But I'm holding you to it." Emma offers her hand to him. "Shall we?"

Jefferson suddenly looks panicked. He tenses his stance, where he had been leaning against a shelf. He runs a hand through his hair and avoids Emma's outstretched hand, palm up.

"I don't really—"

"You can't dance?"

"It's not that. I just—I haven't danced…"

"You'll do fine," Emma encourages. "Even if you screw up, no one'll see. And I promise I won't laugh."

Heaving a sigh, Jefferson takes Emma's hand and they walk to the center of the room. He cradles her tentatively at first, their hands still clasped while his other hand rests on the small of her back. Emma smiles and hooks her free arm around his neck, oddly at ease. They sweep about the room in gentle circles around the chorus of strings. She feels the heat radiating between them, bringing a rosy color to her cheeks and the tips of her ears. Emma notices a bead of sweat trickle down his face and the tight clench of his jaw. She realizes that for the first time in all their encounters—which haven't been many—_she_ is the one making Jefferson anxious. It's a thought that makes her pleased and a little curious. She never thought she could make someone as intimidating as him feel on edge.

"Are you nervous?" Emma asks.

He's abnormally quiet. "I haven't danced with a woman since my wife—"

Emma avoids his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize—"

"It's all right," Jefferson replies, voice still soft. It occurs to Emma, then, that she is right. There is so much she doesn't know about him, and so much more she doesn't yet understand.

"I never pictured myself being able to move on. Before Storybrooke, there wasn't any time to even consider it. Grace…she—I had to think of her, try and provide for her what I could." Something clouds in his eyes. "I didn't think a relationship would be possible until…" He trails off.

Emma's curious. "Until what?"

"You, Emma."

She is taken aback for a moment. She barely realizes her hand has slipped from his and both his hands around her waist. She can feel the warmth of his fingers through the thin fabric of her tank top and she admits to herself that she likes the thought of being wanted again. Emma never pictured it to be Jefferson—of all people—but somewhere deep down they're on the same page. Emma thinks of Graham as Jefferson thinks of his wife. She slides her arms around his neck, fingers combing lightly through his hair. She'd never pictured it at all, but she can start to.

"You know," she declares after a long silence filled with the tender violins, "Moving on doesn't necessarily mean forgetting."

He rests his chin on the top of her head and she leans into him, cheek pressed to his chest. She can hear his heartbeat, like a drumbeat underneath the soothing melody of violin strings. He smells of tea and the heady aroma of his cologne. Emma closes her eyes and breathes deeply.

"Sometimes forgetting is better," Jefferson counters. "At least for a little while."

Emma can't argue with that.


End file.
